Demesne of the Raven
by SelahSpinshadow
Summary: [G1] Left in the camp of the enemy, Octane meditates on his past. (Valkyrie II)


**Demesne of the Raven**

  
  
Author's Note: Despite my best intentions, Octane insisted that he had more story to tell. While you don't have to read "Kiss of the Valkyrie" first, it might help. This fic can also be found in the fanzine _Legends_, in the Spring 2003 issue. ^__^   
The usual disclaimers: I don't own any of these characters, since I'm not Hasbro or Takara or any liscensed partner. This is sortaslash - it's there if you want to read it that way, but you don't have to take it that way at all. So there, the slashiness is entirely up to you! Don't flame me, it'll only make you look stupid. ^__^ 

* * * * * 

  
_". . . where the brave may live forever. . . ."_   
  
Iacon. The crowning jewel of Autobot victory, a city of bustling life and shimmering lights with great, silvery spires reaching up in triumph into the bejewelled ever-night sky. To the Autobots, it was the capital city of a new alliance and a symbol of the enduring power of freedom. But to Octane, it was little more than a dead zone, bereft of the one thing that had made living within it's walls bearable. And the one thing that had made the power of the hate he felt leveled at him by Autobots who refused to see past the purple sigils on his wings tolerable. . . .   
"Go back to your own kind, Decepticon!"   
Octane ducked the empty can reflexively, no longer certain why he bothered. Without Sandstorm, his link to the Autobots, he had no real reason to remain. But despised as he was by the Decepticons, he had no where else to go. And so he stayed in the camp of the supposed enemy, caught between the factions but without the will to seek out a way to do something about it.   
He had felt Sandstorm's ethereal presence twice since the other triplechanger's death, but that had been weeks ago now. And he had read the book of Norse mythology that he had left behind, albeit slowly, as his last link to his only friend, but it had brought him no peace. Human stories that meant little, despite stirring his interest. There was something in those myths to which he felt himself relating, the first time anything human had actually kept his attention for more than a few minutes. But it wasn't nearly enough. Without Sandstorm, he was little more than a lost spark, cast adrift on the currents of time.   
"Octane. . . ."   
The silver triplechanger turned slowly, sighing to himself at the approach of the Autobot supreme commander. He had been avoiding the Prime since Sandstorm's death; he didn't want to be told he had to leave, because he knew that, no matter how much he was hated, he couldn't make himself leave. As sad as it was to admit, Iacon was all he had left.   
"If you're going to tell me I have to leave, Rodimus. . . ."   
"Hmm? Oh, no, actually. You can stay in Iacon as long as you like, though I confess, I'd appreciate it if you reconsidered my offer to become an Autobot."   
"If I wouldn't join when Sandstorm was alive, what makes you think I'll do it now?"   
"Honestly? Nothing. But you understand . . . I had to try," the young Prime offered with a wry smile. Octane actually felt himself returning that smile - if only for a moment - before he even realized it. Perhaps under different circumstances . . . Rodimus was a good leader. He genuinely cared about his troops, but he was also wise enough to know when he didn't have the answers . . . and when he needed to let his generals just do their jobs. There were times when Octane thought the young Prime tried too hard to be liked by everyone, but he still found himself respecting the other mech.   
"Was there something else you wanted, sir?" he asked, offering a lopsided smile of his own. Rodimus actually chuckled, then offered up a datapad.   
"Yeah, this. Personnel finally caught up with itself. There should be a crate at your apartment and Sandstorm's death benefits have been paid in full. You're the sole beneficiary, so. . . ."   
"More stuff? How the pit did that happen?"   
"Secure storage. Don't ask me; I don't know what could be left either."   
"Well, um, thank you, sir."   
"If you need anything . . . don't hesitate to ask, Octane. You don't have to feel alone. . . ."   
Octane watched the leader of the Autobots walk away, all the while fighting down the urge to beat the chips out of the other mech. He knew Rodimus Prime meant well, but the silver Decepticon was heartily sick of people offering their help. Not that there were very many, of course, but by the fifth time . . . well, he was just sick of it. He was Decepticon; he didn't need anyone to do anything for him or give him anything, most especially not out of any kind of pity. Particularly since the one and only thing he truly needed was the one thing no one could ever hope to provide: Sandstorm. As the young Prime has said, a secured crate was waiting for him when he returned to his apartment. Octane carted it into his quarters, suddenly intensely curious to know what Sandstorm would be keeping in secure storage. They had spent more time together than apart, and in all that time, Octane had never known his friend to particularly cherish any physical thing. He had been more of a sensualist, reveling in the experiences themselves and cherishing every memory, but rarely investing any such energy in trinkets or souvenirs.   
At first glance, he was a little surprised by the rather mundane nature of the crate's contents. A framed picture, several leather-bound books from Earth - more Norse mythology - and a handful of data crystals. Then he got a closer look at the picture and a sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.   
"I remember that trip," he whispered, not sure what possessed him to speak aloud. It had been several years ago now, a vacation to the forest moon of Titus VI. He remembered thinking at the time that it was the worst vacation he had ever had. . . .   
  


* * * * * 

  
"Oh Primus in a bucket, you have got to be _kidding_ me. . . ."   
It had been raining from the moment they had stepped off the transport. Without stopping, not even for a few minutes. Octane had heard that the forest moon of Titus VI got a lot of rain, but not like this. He was also apparently the only person on the entire moon who was surprised to hear that flooding was imminent and that, as a result, no one would be allowed to leave the hotel for the next several days, possibly longer. A safety precaution, until the flood waters receded.   
"Well, it's better than being swept away in the current. . . ."   
"Like I could even _get_ swept away! Great . . . so what are we supposed to do, just sit around all day?"   
"Isn't that what we've been doing already?"   
Octane stopped in mid-rant and just gaped at his companion. And then he started laughing so hard he had to sit down or risk falling down. Sandstorm was right, of course; he couldn't even begin to count how many games of cards they had played in the last five days.   
"Primus, I can't believe we're using up all your leave on this! I mean, really! You get, what, twenty days a year? And we're spending it sitting around, waiting on a flood! How do I let you talk me into these things anyway? We could be living it up in luxury on Ovidian III or kicking back on the beaches of Ceti Canis V, but _nooooo_, I have to let you talk me into coming _here_!"   
"Look at it this way, 'Tane . . . it could be worse. . . ."   
"How?"   
"You could be here all by yourself."   
"Hah! I would never even _come_ here by myself!"   
"You're missing the point. . . ."   
"No I'm not, I'm just willfully ignoring it," he replied with a smirk. Sandstorm facepalmed with a groan, mumbling something about annoying mechs endlessly baiting him. Octane leaned back in his chair and grinned up at Sandstorm unrepentantly; if the orange 'bot hadn't learned how to tell when he was getting suckered by _now_, well, _he_ wasn't going to stop messing around with his friend, that much was certain.   
"You are impossible, you know that?"   
"I must not be _that_ impossible, Stormer. You're still hanging around."   
"You'd get yourself killed if I didn't," the orange mech responded with a wry grin.   
"Why Sandstorm, is that honest to Primus _sentiment_ I hear?"   
"No, merely practicality. If you're gone, what am I going to do for entertainment?"   
"Ah! How you wound me!" Octane replied with mock hurt. Sandstorm just smirked , digging out their well-used deck of cards.   
"Another game?"   
"Doesn't sound like I have anything better to do. . . ."   
"Good . . . maybe this time you could let me win?"   
"Now where would be the fun in that, Stormer?"   
"Well . . . if I don't start winning at least _once in awhile_, I'm going to start questioning why I even play with you anymore."   
"Oh that's easy . . . what else would you do?"   
"Probably get rained on," his friend replied with a laugh.   
"Exactly! And where's the fun in that?"   
"I dunno . . . it might actually be kind of nice. It _is_ starting to ease up out there. It'd be like standing under a gentle shower. Wouldn't that be nice?"   
"Oh yeah . . . that's just what I've always wanted to do. Stand out on the roof of a hotel in the middle of monsoon season - a hotel that's about to be in the middle of a lake, might I remind you - and have some slimy rain dripping down my back and wings. Not to mention slithering into all my joints and mucking up my intakes. Yeah, that would be fun."   
"Oh forget it and deal already!"   
"As you wish! But you better not expect me to just let you win!"   
"Oh yeah? Well if you don't stop cheating and actually let me win a few here, I'm going to drag you up to the roof and _make_ you stand in the rain with me!"   
"You wouldn't. . . ."   
"Care to test your luck?"   
"And you call _me_ impossible??"   
Sandstorm laughed as he settled at the table across from him. Shaking his head, Octane let his chair thunk back down onto all four legs. Perhaps just this once it would be wiser to let his friend win a few games. . . .   
  


* * * * * 

  
It felt like a lifetime ago now, those lazy days surrounded by the sounds of falling rain. When they had been able to leave Cybertron more or less any time they wanted. When he had been free of the lingering fear of being hunted down like a dog and shot in some back alley. It hadn't lasted, of course; lulls between Decepticon offensives rarely did. But it had been fun while it had. . . .   
He set aside the picture suddenly, overwhelmed with a sense of loss. Sandstorm had understood him somehow, in ways that no other Autobot seemed willing or perhaps even able to try. Which seemed really rather strange, considering Sandstorm had been a dedicated pacifist for almost his entire life, thus making him essentially Octane's antithesis. Right up until he met Rodimus Prime, that is. But then, maybe that was what made him so special - he possessed a certain outside perspective.   
Whatever it was, Octane missed it. He missed having someone in whom he could confide if he so chose . . . or not, if that was what he wanted. Someone who would argue with him when he needed it or who would just sit and listen to him vent when he needed that instead. Someone who was willing to keep him company and never once think twice about the purple sigils he refused to surrender. Because even though the Decepticons still very much wanted to see him dead, Octane couldn't bring himself to defect, to take up the sigil of the Autobots. And now that Sandstorm was dead . . . well, he had no reason to change his mind and every reason to remain a Decepticon. It was what Sandstorm would have wanted.   
Careful not to damage the leather-bound volumes that seemed so small in his hands, Octane inspected the half-dozen books on Norse history and mythology. Considering the line of research Sandstorm had apparently been pursuing, he wasn't entirely surprised to discover that his friend had the books, but he was a little curious to know why he had kept them in secure storage instead of in his more immediate possession. Setting them aside for the moment, he picked up the data crystals. Each one was tagged with some sort of code phrase and a number, but while the numbers formed a sequence, the phrases themselves meant nothing to him.   
"Probably more notes, eh Stormer? Well, I'll give you credit all right . . . when you got into something, you went all the way, didn't you?"   
Something pushed Octane to slip the first crystal into the desk reader's slot. He was shocked when, instead of pages and pages of notes, Sandstorm's voice reached across time to speak to him once more.   
_"Well Octane, if you're listening to this, then I'm probably dead. I'm sorry to leave you, my friend - you've been everything I could have ever asked for in a friend and much more. I'm so very glad our paths were crossed. . . ."_   
Octane suddenly stopped the replay, too shocked to do anything else. He stared at the console in numb denial Then he stabbed the play button hurriedly, desperate to hear that familiar voice again. He listened intently to every word, absorbing them as if they were the stuff of life itself.   
_"And since you're listening to this, I either didn't get a chance to explain my research or I didn't get a chance to make a new recording before the end came. Hopefully it's the latter, but I wouldn't want to take any chances. . . .   
"For all our peace and culture, we Paratronians lacked something our Cybertronian cousins thought vital - a faith in more than just the existence of Primus. I don't know why the scattered myths of our people captured my attention, but the journey of discovery has been largely rewarding.   
"I do not know what twist of cosmic fate lead to the humans having amidst their myths the valkyrie - the choosers of the dead - or why they should exist in our myths as well. Perhaps the mystery of the valkyrie carries a sort of universal appeal to the spirits of the warrior castes. Surely that is why the Autobots and the Decepticons have seen fit to cling to a faith in the All-Spark while we Paratronians cast it aside as unnecessary mysticism. Though I have only been a warrior for a handful of years, you have taught me to see what it means to need to know there is more to this life than just what we see before us. That longing to know that there is a grander plan than just random chance. As many times as we've faced death together, though, I wish I could have had a greater faith in that plan. . . .   
"By now you're probably wondering what this has to do with anything. The more I read of the Aesir and Asgard, the more certain I became that the myths of the Vikings would appeal to you as well. Thus the books are yours, 'Tane, as are the data crystals, my last gifts to you from this life. I hope they can offer you some measure of comfort in my passing. I only wish it wasn't necessary. . . ."_   
Eighteen crystals, all told, each of them filled with hours of secretly recorded letters and rambles. Octane couldn't even begin to imagine when Sandstorm had found the time to make so many recordings - the sneak had even made a half dozen while they had vacationed on that blasted moon - but he was glad that he had. Even if just hearing his voice was enough to bring back painful memories he desperately wished he could forget. . . .   
  


* * * * * 

  
"Hang in there, Sandstorm. Primus, please . . . don't leave me. Oh Primus, please, by all that's good and right, don't take him from me. Not like this. Please . . . please, Sandstorm. . . . I can't do this without you. . . ."   
Octane could hear a rattling, liquid wheeze issuing up from Sandstorm's ruined chest as he held the Autobot triplechanger's head in his lap. A sound so deeply wrong it made his internals twitch just to hear it. Thrust's missile had torn open a gaping wound in the other mech's chest and fluids seemed to be leaking out of everywhere and nowhere all at once. He wanted to do something more than just wait for the medevac unit to arrive, but terror of doing even more damage held him immobile. Helpless. And he could feel the life fading out of his companion's body.   
"Don't leave me, Stormer . . . don't you dare leave me. . . ."   
". . . 'Tane . . . I don't know . . . how long. . . ."   
"Don't go," he whispered fiercely, his voice little more than a dry rasp. He could feel fuel leaking out over his hand, and it terrified him more than anything ever had in his long life. He prayed as he never had before to a god in whom he had never had strong faith, prayed that help would arrive soon, that Sandstorm could survive long enough for the Autobots to find them.   
"Please . . . Primus, I know I've never been a faithful worshiper, never been inside a temple more than twice. No matter what Sandstorm said, I just . . . I didn't see the point. But please, if You're really out there, Primus . . . don't take him from me. I can't do this without him. . . ."   
The Badlands was no place to be in trouble, no place to be lost and without flight. Rage fueled Octane, giving him the strength to push aside his own injuries and fight to hold Sandstorm in this life by the sheer force of his will. Rage at the helplessness he felt. Rage at the fact that Thrust was responsible. Rage that he had been unable to do anything to prevent this. As soon as this was over, he was going to hunt down Thrust and rip him apart with his bare hands. And maybe a few other Decepticons while he was at it. He would make them pay. He would make them all pay. . . .   
"Hang in there, Storm . . . just hang in there. . . ."   
  


* * * * * 

  
He had been holding back his grief for weeks, trying to be strong, to be without weakness. It was the Decepticon way, to push aside any sign of frailty or deficiency, no matter how reasonable. Surrounded by enemies and uneasy allies, Octane had refused to give in to his loss. But now that he was safely hidden away in his solitary apartment, simply hearing Sandstorm's voice again, coupled with painful memory, broke down the last of his remaining defenses. A silent keening filled the apartment, the unheard tones rising and falling with the ancient dirge of his long-lost home. He held the last note as he recited a Norse prayer for the dead; he wasn't sure why, entirely, but it seemed appropriate somehow. That the prayer had even stuck in his memory at all was enough to justify it to himself.   
"I miss you, Stormer," he sighed softly, slowly returning power to his optics as he rose tiredly to his feet to walk across the room. His rituals complete and his spark more at ease than it had been since Sandstorm's death, Octane curled up in his favorite chair and just listened to the sound of Sandstorm's voice as it filled the tiny apartment once more. He reveled in the recording's clear tones, losing himself in the memories that swirled around him. 

_And in the morning, the great All-Father   
Sent Hunin and Munin out into the world   
And by the end of his meal, they gave to him   
All the knowledge of the day just past. . . ._


End file.
